


Whirlpool

by Hostilitas



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon-adjacent, F/M, Hashtag Men Get Pegged, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23190883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hostilitas/pseuds/Hostilitas
Summary: One received a name after losing their past. The other chose a name after finding their future.The Wicks shared way more history than most people would ever know about.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick, John Wick & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Whirlpool

* * *

Handler. 

The word immediately brings to mind the image of hands, handling. The main connection we really have to the world – the ability to manipulate, reshape, replace, create, move, destroy. All of those done by our hands, so simple and so complex.

A handler is handsy, as it is their nature. Handlers have to understand their own hands to understand what they are handling. Helen, the handler, understood her hands highly.

Helen wasn’t the handler’s honest name. It was one she would choose at some point in the future, after burying the past callsigns and codenames in the cold dirt. Henrika Halkias died long before Helen would, taking with her the names of so many others, killed by proxy. 

Handlers weren’t considered strictly necessary. Hitmen worked by their own rules, and the longstanding Continental Agency covered most of the logistics needs, turning them mostly into freelancers. Mostly. 

But the Hitmen that _had_ Handlers were something else. Something in their own league. The evolution of the sniper-spotter team, a Handler excelled at routing, identifying patterns, pointing out opportunities and suggesting the best execution methods, exits and emergency escape plans. Good Hitmen were supposed to be focused on their targets only. Collateral damage was very much commonplace in the criminal underworld, but still undesirable. The best job was the one performed perfectly and as silently as possible – getting in, killing the mark, and getting out undetected and unscathed. 

That was were their secret strength came in. The top contracts were always the riskier ones, the riskier contracts were always the high-profile ones, and the high-profile contracts always incurred in a change in internal politics, also known as “stirring shit”. The criminal world was very, very bureaucratic, and there were times where it paid off to lose a percentage of the profit in exchange of an anoymous middleman making it uncertain between fellow criminals exactly _who_ carried the blame for a highly _revengeable_ murder.

Charybdis was one of the top Handlers based in the United States. For years, she was the one guiding destinies towards the maw of doom. Many Hitmen had passed through her life – some coming out better, some not coming out at all. The raging whirlpool didn’t quite separate the good boats from the bad boats. Whatever came unprepared for it was sure to be caught as well.

Handling people wasn’t easy, and yet it wasn’t hard. It was a difficult job that Henrika always knew how to accomplish. Handlers and Hitmen both wanted the same thing – dead targets, survival and payment. The difficulty of the task didn’t matter as much as the difficulty of the people involved.

Out of all the targets, Hitmen, coworkers and competitors, Johnathan Wick proved himself to be the hardest one to deal with.

\- You were late for training today. Again.

\- I was.

Permanently clad in tailored black, the nonchalant legend sat down beside Henrika on the Continental bar. They met regularly, but a good Handler knew that there was a necessary distance to be kept. Hitmen were dangerous materials, and after making enough enemies or owing enough favors, their personal relationships tended to end up on the wrong sides of gun barrels.

\- You know why I insist on training you, John.

Henrika dressed as something she wasn’t. Although criminals didn’t exactly share much in a sense of style, anything other than halfway neutral drew looks from other coworkers. Clothes make the woman, and the sleaze emanating from a half-open button shirt, gold rings around a mojito glass and unnecessary sunglasses perched on slicked-back hair drew suspicions way elsewhere. Maybe a gambler, a club owner, a fixer of some sort. Definitely not the person that coordinated the killings of many former bosses and colleagues frequenting that same lounge. Charybdis was a name without a face for most people.

She gave his shin a light kick to make him stop trying to ignore the confrontation. They needed to talk, but John just wanted a moment’s respite. 

\- Do you want me to remind you what happened the last time you acted like this?

What John was trying to ignore now was how she was hunched over in her chair, leaning towards him, showing a little too much cleavage. Enough that he might even sneak a good peek of bare skin. Henrika wasn’t too fond of bras.

He didn’t. There was enough composure in him to not fall for such obvious bait, and too much stress to think about titties. Barely changing his expression, he turned towards Charybdis with a whiskey glass in hand, staring straight into her eyes. A gaze most people didn’t get unless they were about to die.

\- I was late for training because I don’t see why it’s necessary to have such an intensive regimen, and because I was busy doing routine maintenance on my equipment.

There was a third, unspoken reason. Henrika stirred her glass slowly before exposing it.

\- This time you’re not going to say that it’s also because I’m not the _boss_ of you?

Wick preferred to sip his whiskey silently. Charybdis seemed particularly angry today, and he didn’t mean to match her energy. At least not yet. 

Henrika sighed, returning to her regular position. She crossed her legs, leaning back on the bar. It seemed like anger, but it was merely very clear dissatisfaction. 

\- John, I want what’s best for you. It’s why I train you.

\- ...I know. The problem is that you give me _zero_ time to relax with your free-form, strike-at-any-moment training.

A moment of silence between them punctuated the real problem. Shit, Henrika had a whole thing to say already about the importance of training, but he surprised her a bit. 

There was an unnatural strength in his grip of the glass, as if he didn’t want to stop feeling it in his hand while closing his eyes. He was stressed, yes, but it wasn’t anger. He was just pent up. It was true; Charybdis did not give him a lot of time to breathe. As a Handler, she was used to having her hands all over Wick’s life. Those hands sometimes ended up around his throat.

John Wick was hard to deal with. Not because of all the targets painted on his back, or the lip he definitely didn’t mind giving to anyone he ever worked with, or some insubordination. John understood why he decided to work under a Handler, and even if the life of a trained killer was hard, even if Henrika sometimes ground him to the bone with hard assignments, life management and live training, he’d rather have her around than not.

John sighed, massaging his forehead.

\- Look. I’m sorry. I understand why you do it. I’m just a little on edge, is all. You know I appreciate your work.

On her side, the reason why she had a much more difficult time dealing with him was kind of obvious, as she carefully watched the rim of the whiskey glass touch his lips. How she imagined feeling the knots of his muscles under her fingers, softly telling him he could have a day off. One little day to forget about the grime and the muck of the underworld and appreciate what he liked in life. It would be nice. 

\- … Alright.

Henrika turned all the way back towards the bar. She thought of what they needed to talk about – an upcoming job that was a little hard to stomach. Most jobs were, and if he felt like shit when executing it, she felt like shit when poring over all the details. She wished she could share the burden a little more. No matter how much she worked in the background, John was always the one who came back bruised, cut and wounded, in body and soul. 

She ordered another round of drinks for both of them. A peace offering, once Henrika realized she might be a little stressed too, maybe for different reasons.

\- Drink. We can talk later, John.

John Wick was hard to handle because Henrika Halkias cared for him.

* * *

Handlers were mere watchers, most of the time. Handlers had no contact with the action.

John stood with his back against the wall, right next to a corner. Beyond him, a dilapidated corridor, the brick walls bared after being harassed by the elements and the rot. A long-dead hotel, dangerous in more ways than one, especially at night. Light would be extremely beneficial, and also extremely detrimental; two snipers were set on the outside, peeking through the windows in search of any strange movement. The number of guards inside was unknown, and “expected to be low” wasn’t even close to a guarantee.

Stealth was of utmost importance. John could handle whatever was thrown at him, but he had to know it was coming. Getting picked off by a sniper or ambushed in a dark corridor was out of the question. He took every step carefully, scanning the floor to make sure his feet didn’t end up crunching any particularly noisy debris, and kept his ears pricked up for any signs of movement in the upcoming rooms while dodging appearing through the windows. The real danger was in the still-functioning casino the hotel was connected to, but the way there was no better.

Also, his ass looked amazing in his so-called sneaking gear, which was little more than a stretchier, tighter pair of pants, combined with rubber-soled boots, tactical gloves, a bulletproof vest, a facemask and an absence of tie and jacket. Less shit to get snagged on edges or grabbed, and less skin for anyone to recognize him by. All of which were thoughts that Henrika scooted away from the foreground of her mind as soon as they came around.

\- Heading inside. - in a whisper, John let his handler know that he was about to enter the unknown stretch of the route, as planned. 

In maybe half an hour, fighting would ensue. Either against a dozen bodyguards, maybe more, or against the mark in question, an ex-boss fallen from the graces of the High Table. A dangerous target and a high bounty. No matter John’s skill level, there was always the possibility of a stray bullet, a knife to the back, even something so little as losing his balance in a critical moment could cost him his life. 

He was alone. No one to observe him.

Henrika felt that last thought clink around her skull for a few moments, putting the binoculars down and muting her headset microphone. A long sigh, as she plainly noticed how her shoulders were extremely fucking stiff. Way more stiff than she ever felt while playing up her public character – wearing a shirt with a gaudy-ass print and pretending to everyone else that she had nothing to do with the latest high-profile death was much easier than sitting in a car in the dark, warming up in a hoodie and hoping that a plan would work correctly.

All she could do was imagine. She had no idea what he was doing at the moment, no eyes on his actual movements. The best – and only – course of action was continuing her scouting, watching for strange movement worthy of a heads-up. If all went to shit, a distraction could be arranged, or she could divert him to one of the preplanned escape routes. Saving him was almost completely out of the question; Henrika wasn’t a fighter. She was a very good driver, though, but a getaway would create even more problems.

The headphone buzzed again, letting the assassin’s voice come clear through.

\- Clear so far. Intel was good.

Maybe she could hope for the best, for once. Even in a high-risk environment, John still had a good chance of executing everything perfectly. The planning was sound.

Charybdis smiled, perching herself over the car’s steering wheel and looking out towards the hotel, a long way down from the parking garage. What a waste of a place to be inside of on such a beautiful starry night. 

\- Alright then, John. Nothing on the scopes so far…

She picked up the binoculars again, scanning the building and the front of the casino, noticing a few guards huddled around a cart, drinking and eating. Her stomach growled.

\- … Other than a sucessful hot dog vendor, apparently. Hey, if this goes off as planned, you’re buying me dinner.

John stifled a chuckle. 

\- Sure. You pick the place.

\- Already have one in mind.

She paused. He didn’t answer back, but he hadn’t cut the microphone either. Communication should be kept to a minimum for safety, and they couldn’t bet that just because he hadn’t seen anyone else so far that they weren’t there.

Henrika bit her lip for a moment, nervous in anticipation of the rest of the night and of the words about to leave her mouth.

\- Good luck, John. Come back alive. 

* * *

Handlers were, essentially, glorified managers. Administrators, laser-focused on very few people at a time, bridging the gap between job and executor. The secret truth of their unusual profession was the object of their management – most of the time, Handlers were exclusively managing expectations.

Sometimes, that meant getting good intel, scouting, doing research to know what was ahead. Analyzing the past to understand the possibilities and the professional ripples of certain missions. Perhaps doling out information slowly and carefully choosing words both to employer and employee so that neither of them would get cold feet, feel overconfident or smell betrayal (whether it was true or false). 

Today, it meant patching up a bullet wound and assuring John he was going to be okay. 

Shit way to end an already stressful day, with both of them bloodied, one wounded in spirit and the other in body. Handler and Hitman shared a dimly-lit motel room, prepared in advance as a safehouse exactly for this kind of situation, while Henrika tried to pick bits of shrapnel from John’s bleeding shoulder with a pincer. Definitely not the proper place for it, and the decoration was awful, but it was what they had.

\- Ow. Careful.

John winced when Henrika poked his wound accidentally. She muttered a quick apology, exchanging the pincer for a needle and thread a little later, ready to close the cleaned-up and disinfected wound.

Even if there was only one bullethole, and, thankfully, the bullet had fully exited without hitting anything too important, John still felt pain throughout his entire being. Stress tended to do that. Getting shot, even more so. His back had a couple of deep bruises as well, and there was no current way to tell if the lead that hadn’t penetrated kevlar managed to crack a rib or not. In simpler terms, he felt battered. Fucked up.

\- Guess we’ll have to postpone dinner. Ouch.

Henrika pierced skin multiple times, suturing the last wound slowly. Even with a bit of anesthesia, no one enjoyed either being sutured or suturing. She cracked a smile with his comment, momentarily forgetting their troubles.

\- Unfortunately. Quite a shame, I was really looking forward to it. 

\- Hngh. And where was I going to take you?

\- Nothing too special… A greek place that I like. Have you ever had _kleftiko_?

John took a deep breath, closing his eyes and trying to relax for a moment. Everything still hurt, but at least he had company. One of his preferred companies, even. 

\- I haven’t. What is that?

\- Slow-roasted lamb, potatoes, butter, garlic… Ideally _veeery_ slow-roasted. Meat falling off the bone kind of slow-roasted…

John felt a shiver ride up his spine hearing Henrika drawl out words right next to his ear. 

\- That sounds… delicious. Exactly what I would like right now.

\- Me too… Just a pity that you had to go and get yourself shot, huh.

The chuckle, no matter how quick, took him immediately out of whatever he felt they were getting into. Made him remember the still enormous amount of pain he was in, and not any kind of fun pain. It was a risky mission, he knew that, but you never get used to having a bullet go through you, especially when you’re supposed to be one of the top dogs in the game. Today, John felt weak. The worst kind of weak – and even though he knew it wasn’t her fault, John felt like Henrika had no place to be joking about him right now.

\- Look. I appreciate what you’re doing, but remind me again why I’m not getting treated at the Continental. 

Henrika noticed the change in demeanor quickly. Shit. Maybe he blamed her for getting hurt… and she didn’t feel like it was anyone else’s fault. After finishing up the last stitch, she pulled herself back a bit, staring quietly for a moment at his tattoos… only to try and distract herself from how nasty those bruises looked, simultaneously colored with purple, red and sickly yellow.

\- … Plausible deniability, John. Remember?

\- What?

John turned around, only enough to look at her from over his shoulder. 

Henrika stared back into his eyes, feeling very, very tired all of a sudden.

\- We just took a run at a rogue ex-member of the High Table. They aren’t going to come after us themselves, but Arellano’s name still holds a _lot_ of weight. For both our sakes, it’s preferable that no rumours about you coming into the Continental right after that attack covered in blood start spreading. 

\- My absence is still going to be noticed. 

\- Yes, but there are twenty other people who could have tried to carry this out who were notably absent as well. - Henrika reached to the side, picking up a roll of bandages and scissors. The sooner the first-aid ended, the sooner she could go out to get some food, the sooner she could go to fucking sleep. - They’re on the run with an open bounty on their back, no one is going to come kicking doors down unless they’re sure which Hitman did it. Let me finish bandaging you.

Sighing, John turned his back to her again, waiting to be readied for rest and healing. She started patching him up, almost wrapping her arms around his chest, but trying to keep a… professional distance. Or at least keep the more personal wishes in her brain under a separate set of wraps. Compartmentalization was a necessary skill for career criminals. 

Compartmentalizing just as well, John kicked a box to the corner of his mind after storing away how he wished that Henrika’s touch lasted a little longer. Being in a well-paid profession where you were constantly either kicking ass or getting your ass kicked had a side-effect of making you want the connections that money and favors couldn’t buy.

\- Okay... you’re done. - Henrika stood up, picking up the first aid kit and putting it on the nightstand before cracking her back. - You can rest… I’m going to see if I can find us something to eat around the neighborhood.

\- … Thanks. 

Henrika couldn’t quite put a finger on what John was feeling right now, staring at a distant point in the horrid burgundy wallpaper for a few moments before scooting backwards and carefully lying on the bed, grunting softly and turning away from her. He was either complacent, sad, just really tired, very sincere, or maybe all four at the same time. Vulnerable.

Handling was a dirty, tiresome, almost thankless business. Today, even if she knew that they had failed and that the next time – if they were even going to get a next time – would be much, much harder, though, knowing that John ended up with an opportunity to have the rest he so direly needed felt correct. Although it could be the guilt talking.

The job description mostly didn’t account for silly, human things, not if they were coming from the Handler themself. It was easy to feel mechanical in an organic world – not only was the work very dry and hopefully divorced of emotion, even the connections made, so integral to any business between criminals, never seemed to reach any level other than the professional. 

Which made especially hard for Henrika to be caught offguard in moments like these, running her fingers through a sleeping Hitman’s hair for a moment before leaving a takeout bag on the table and heading back out for a very long smoke.

Handling wasn’t that difficult. Except when the hands wanted something they couldn’t have.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction in a loooong while, and the first one I actually post online! My english is a little rusty here and there, but I believe it's mostly up to literary par. Hope you enjoyed it! There will be more coming to this story, and things are eventually going to get a little sexier as well. I really like the "crimeverse" the movies created and definitely want to try and expand it somewhat. 
> 
> If you liked it, please consider commenting! I'd love to know what you think. Thanks.


End file.
